The Sister(17)
The boy didn’t make it out of the churchyard.
Strong as she was, she came close to her breaking point. After six years of service, she decided it was time to leave and she left without permission to do so, returning to her home one last time to retrieve the stone from its hiding place.
When they'd originally come for her years before, she’d dropped it into the water butt outside the front door of her house. She took it from its slimy drawstring purse, held it and closed her eyes. It was the first time she’d touched it since her friend, Mick, had been run over attempting to negotiate his way through a railway crossing whilst drunk. When that had happened, she’d wanted to throw it away. Now that she knew she possessed the ability to interpret what the polished black sphere merely amplified, it would become a supplementary tool, and as part of her calling and destiny, it was far too important to discard.
As for the paedophile priest, she’d find a way to ensure he paid for his sins.
Chapter 13
New Year 1975
Although it was just before sunrise, the streets of Brighton were already busy. Traders exchanged friendly banter as the day’s business commenced. Roller shutters clattered as shop windows were exposed. Van doors opened and then boomed shut, twin amber flashes and beeping sounds signalled the setting of alarms.
Nobody noticed the diminutive hooded figure in the grey satin cape as she hurried by, late for an appointment. Despite the loose fit of the clothing, the form was unmistakably female. The sharpness of the air caught her breath, turning it into misty trails of cloud that evaporated in her wake. She glanced up at a clock as she passed. It confirmed she was five minutes late.
Vera disappeared into a labyrinth of alleyways, before finally locating the impatient looking Mrs Smith.
‘Sorry, I’m late,’ she said, struggling to catch her breath.
The older woman forced a thin smile, and turned to unlock the door. She made no attempt at friendliness.
Decorated Romany style, red with the fine detailing picked out in yellows and greens, the shop’s double front showcased the cleverly staged scenery. Set well back from the windows, one side depicted daytime, with all its sunny greenery, painted full size on canvas backdrops. The other showed night, dimly lit by an array of tiny star lights set into the black ceiling. Here, men sat about a campfire, drinking, smoking, engaging with each other, their faces half-aglow against the firelight.
Vera imagined for a moment that she saw it flicker into life. The focal point behind the shop front was a traditional bow top caravan, complete with steam-bent, carved wooden profiles, lavishly decorated in shades of red, green and gold. It looked authentic, and for all the world, as if the builders, unwilling to move it, had constructed the shop around it instead. She’d never seen anything quite like it before.
Beyond the lobby, there were four steps going up from ground level into the vardo. A pair of heavy crimson velvet tasselled curtains hung either side of the narrow entranceway. A horseshoe, hung above the door, for luck.
She followed as Mrs Smith entered.
Once inside, she pulled her hood down, revealing long, fine hair the colour of pale flame. Her complexion was creamy, and her green eyes striking; they conveyed wisdom beyond her years. ‘Why is it so gloomy in here?’ she said.
‘There’s not enough electricity to fire the bulbs up to their full extent,’ the older woman explained, ‘besides, it’s advantageous if they can’t see you properly.’
Surprised at the lush décor, the younger woman’s eyes settled on a painting that dominated one wall. A beautiful and mysterious looking fortune teller in traditional garb had been captured by the artist in part profile, one eye narrowed, she peered into a crystal ball held aloft in her left hand. She realised with a smile that she’d positioned herself in the middle of the scene used as the backdrop for the portrait.
Mrs Smith sat. Vera remained standing and looked at the cloth covering the table between them, the colour and texture of it reminded her of fine green grass.
‘C’mon Sister, take a pew,’ she pointed at the red velvet seat opposite.
A sudden whiff of the past caught her off guard and, for the tiniest moment, she wondered if she knew about her. She didn’t; it was pure coincidence. A habit she had of calling fellow Irish women ‘sister’.
Vera acknowledged with a smile. ‘I guess we’re all Sisters here.’
‘What did you say your name was, dear?’
‘I didn’t. Call me Sister, that’ll suit me fine,’ she said.
‘Have you done this kind of work before?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Y'know, I used to call meself Petulengro in the early days, before I came here. I had to change it, seeing as that isn’t me real name. What’s yours?’
‘It’s Vera.’
‘Then it looks like you’ll be having to change your name, too!’ The older woman laughed, ‘What will you call yourself?’
‘I thought we agreed a minute ago, call me Sister,’ she smiled enigmatically.
‘Sister Petulengro… Now that does have a good ring about it.’ Mrs Smith’s eyes shone as she continued. ‘It’s not too hard; they do half the work for ya. Okay, so this is how it we’ll do it. You’ll watch me for a few days and, if you’re smart, you’ll be up and running in no time. Remember, tell 'em what they want to hear. It’s what they pay you for.’